The entryway reeked of fried bacon and unwashed bodies. Dirty women’s boots were sprawled on the mat. A gray puddle had formed where the soles had dripped onto the tiles. From the kitchen came slurping noises and the low hum of the TV.
Marina slipped off her shoes and took off her coat. After her shift, her legs were aching. All she wanted was some hot tea and peace and quiet.
Sitting in the kitchen was Dasha—her husband’s sister. And she was wearing Marina’s bathrobe.
Dasha was eating Navy-style pasta straight out of the expensive Teflon skillet. She used a metal fork, making a grating sound on the coating that was painful to hear.
“Hey,” Dasha said with her mouth full.
Marina paused in the doorway. On the table stood an empty pot that had held borscht. An open pack of sliced cheese was tossed nearby. The sink was piled high with greasy dishes.
“Where’s the soup?” Marina asked in a steady voice.
Dasha just shrugged.
“It’s gone. Kostik dropped by for lunch. He liked it.”
Marina glanced at the five-liter pot.
“Five liters? In one day?”
“Well, I had some too. And Kostik took a container to work. What, you begrudge your own husband a little soup?”
Dasha put down the fork. Deep white scratches marked the bottom of the skillet. That pan had cost four thousand.
Something inside Marina locked up. Cold and heavy.
She walked to the fridge and opened the door. It was empty. No yogurt, no chicken fillet, no doctor’s sausage. Just a jar of cheap mustard.
“Where are the cutlets?” Marina asked.
“We finished those yesterday. Come on, Marina, why are you freaking out? Should I be sitting here hungry?”
Marina took receipts from her bag. She always kept them.
“This month I’ve spent forty-five thousand rubles on groceries.”
Dasha rolled her eyes.
“Oh, here we go. The accountant speaks.”
“You’ve lived here for eight months. Eight. You haven’t bought a single loaf of bread.”
“I’m looking for a job!” her sister-in-law raised her voice.
“You’re looking for a sponsor on Tinder. But you eat at my expense.”
Marina took the empty skillet and put it in the sink. She turned the tap to cold water.
“Hey! I wasn’t finished!” Dasha protested.
“Your food’s gone. So is mine. Get out of the kitchen.”
Dasha snorted, pulled off Marina’s bathrobe, threw it on a chair, and left for the living room.
Marina didn’t bother with the dishes. She poured herself a glass of water, downed it in one go, took out her phone, and messaged her husband.
“Stop by the store. There’s no food at home.”
A reply came in a minute.
“I’m tired. Order delivery. You have money.”
Marina smirked. She did have money. Her own.
In the evening, the front door banged shut. Kostya appeared.
“Marina! Are we having dinner?”
Marina sat on the couch with her laptop.
“There’s no food,” she said.
Kostya walked into the room—shoes still on.
“What do you mean no food? The fridge was full just yesterday.”
“Your sister ate it all. With your help.”
Kostya sighed heavily and wiped invisible dust from his face.
“Ira, you’re at it again. Dasha’s young, her metabolism is fast.”
“Her nerve is fast. I pay thirty-eight thousand a month for the mortgage. This is my apartment.”
“We’re family!” Kostya barked. “I pay the utility bills!”
“Utilities are six thousand. Food is forty-five. Your sister has cost me three hundred and sixty thousand over these eight months.”
“You only care about money!”
Kostya turned and walked into the kitchen. Soon there was a loud clatter of pots coming from there.
“Marina!” he shouted. “There aren’t even any eggs in here!”
“I know.”
Kostya came back visibly angry. Red blotches spread across his face.
“Give me a thousand rubles, I’ll go get some shawarma.”
Marina looked at him carefully. It was like she was looking at a stranger.
“Your card is in your pocket.”
“I paid off part of my car loan. You know I have nothing left until my paycheck.”
“Looks like today is a fasting day for you two.”
Kostya slammed his fist against the doorframe.
“Are you kidding me? My sister is starving! I’m starving! Are you my wife or what?”
“I’m a sponsor, Kostya. But my generosity promo is over.”
He swore under his breath and slammed the front door. An hour later, he came back with two shawarmas and a can of cola. Dasha greeted her brother in the hallway, happy to see him. They didn’t offer Marina anything.
She couldn’t care less.
The next day was Saturday. In the morning, someone slid an unfamiliar key into the lock.
The door opened with a quiet squeak. Marina was lying in bed. She could hear footsteps—heavy and shuffling.
Galina Petrovna. Her mother-in-law.
“Kostya! Dashutka! I brought you pancakes!” her booming voice echoed down the hallway.
Marina threw on her robe and stepped out of the bedroom.
Galina Petrovna was expertly pulling off her boots. She clutched a plastic container in her hands.
“Oh, you’re still sleeping, Marisha? It’s already eleven.”
“It’s my day off.”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips.
“A wife should be feeding her husband breakfast, not lying around. Where’s my son?”
A disheveled Dasha came out of the living room.
“Mom, she left us hungry last night. Threw a fit over soup.”
Galina Petrovna gasped and looked at Marina.
“Are you out of your mind? Letting a child go hungry?”
“The ‘child’ is twenty-four,” Marina replied. “And she eats like a moving guy.”
“How dare you!” her mother-in-law marched towards her.
Marina didn’t back down.
“Put the key on the table.”
Galina Petrovna froze.
“What?”
“My apartment key. Please place it on the nightstand.”
Her mother-in-law exchanged glances with her daughter.
“I’m not putting anything down. This is my son’s apartment.”
“The apartment was bought before the marriage. With my money. Your son is only temporarily registered here. Put the key on the table.”
Galina Petrovna threw the keys onto the wooden surface. The jingle echoed throughout the hallway.
“God, you wouldn’t spare a slice of bread for your family! Poor Kostya. He married a stingy shrew.”
Her mother-in-law went to the kitchen. Dasha ran after her. Marina could hear them whispering.
An hour later, Galina Petrovna left.
Marina went to the bathroom to wash up. Her jars were on the shelf. One was missing—her night cream that cost seven thousand rubles was gone.
Marina walked into the hallway.
“Dasha. Where’s my cream?”
Dasha didn’t even look up from her phone.
“I don’t know. Mom took something to put on her hands. She said they were dry.”
“Her hands? With my anti-aging retinol cream?”
“Oh, what does it matter? Why are you whining over a jar? Just buy a new one, you’ve got a big salary.”
Marina didn’t say a word. She went back to the bedroom. Got dressed. Grabbed her bag.
She needed to go to the hardware store.
The store was fifteen minutes away on foot. The weather was unpleasant. The November wind crept under her jacket. Marina walked quickly.
At the hypermarket, she grabbed a cart and headed straight for the fasteners section.
She picked out two thick steel plates with hasps. Grabbed a set of metal self-tapping screws. Heavy-duty Poxipol glue. And a lock.
The lock was heavy. It was a padlock with a combination dial. The kind you can’t open without a grinder.
Next, she stopped by the appliance store and bought a mini fridge—about the size of a nightstand. She arranged for express delivery.
Marina got home by 3 PM.
The apartment was empty. Dasha had gone out for a walk. Kostya was in the garage with his friends.
Marina got straight to work.
She took out her own cordless drill. Fitted the steel plates to the doors of the big white Bosch fridge in the kitchen.
Screwing the hardware into the fridge wasn’t easy. The metal shell fought back. But her anger gave her strength.
After half an hour, two hefty loops were mounted on the fridge door. Marina slipped the padlock through them. Click. She tugged. It was solid.
Then she moved all the grains, pasta, and canned food from the kitchen cabinets into her bedroom. She installed a basic door lock with a key on her bedroom door. That part was easier.
By 5 PM, the movers brought the mini-fridge. Marina set it up right by her bed and plugged it in.
After that, she called for a courier from an expensive grocery store. She ordered trout, ribeye steaks, farm cottage cheese, fancy cheeses, fruits. Fifteen thousand rubles’ worth.
She carefully organized all the food inside her new personal fridge in the bedroom.
The big kitchen fridge stood empty, unplugged, and locked with a padlock.
Marina took a shower. Put on a face mask. Made herself coffee.
She sat in the kitchen with her mug, waiting.
Dasha was the first to come back.
She was carrying a bag of chips and a cheap energy drink.
“Ugh, it’s cold,” she said from the doorway. Threw her jacket on the stool and walked into the kitchen.
Marina drank her coffee in silence.
Dasha reached for the fridge. Pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.
She pulled harder. The lock clanged against the metal.
Dasha stared at the steel hinges.
“What’s this?”
“A lock,” Marina replied calmly.
“Why?”
“So you won’t eat everything.”
Dasha turned pale.
“Are you crazy? Open it now. I want ketchup for my chips.”
“There’s no ketchup in there. There’s nothing at all. The fridge is off. My food is in my room. My room is locked.”
Dasha clenched her fists.
“Kostya won’t like this!”
“Kostya can go cry in the bathroom.”
Dasha grabbed her phone and nervously dialed her brother.
“Kostya! This psycho put a giant padlock on the fridge!” she yelled into the phone. “Yeah! She screwed it on with actual metal screws!”
Marina finished her coffee. Washed her mug. Went to her room and locked the door with two turns.
An hour later, Konstantin stormed in.
Marina heard the banging of the front door. His heavy steps in the hallway. His shouting in the kitchen.
Then someone started pounding on the bedroom door.
“Marina! Open up, now!”
Marina set her book aside, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door.
Kostya stood there, red with rage.
“What the hell are you doing? Why did you mess up the fridge?”
“I upgraded it.”
“Take off the lock! I’m starving! We’ve been working in the garage all day!”
Marina leaned against the door frame.
“I’m not taking off the lock. Starting today, we’re splitting finances. I’ll pay the mortgage. You cover your sister and your food.”
“I’m your husband! You have to make me dinner!”
“Where does it say that?”
“At the registry office!”
Marina smirked.
“All they give you at the registry office is a marriage certificate. Not a document adopting a grown-up idiot and his sister.”
Kostya tried to push Marina aside and get into the room.
“Let me in! You’ve got food in there! I can smell it!”
Marina shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. Kostya staggered back into the hallway.
“Touch me or my door again and I’m calling the police. I’ll say you tried to attack me.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
She closed the door and turned the key.
Shouting, cursing, and banging echoed through the door. Kostya was calling his mother. Galina Petrovna, it seemed, was advising him to break down the door.
But he didn’t dare break it. He kicked the wall and went to the kitchen. Marina heard the front door slam. Kostya had gone out to the store.
Monday passed. Tuesday came.
The new rules were strict. Marina cooked for herself in her bedroom with a multicooker or ordered takeout. She’d wash her dishes immediately and store them in her room.
The kitchen was a mess.
Dasha and Kostya bought a pack of dumplings and cheap sausages. But they had nothing to cook them in—Marina had taken her pots to her bedroom.
On Wednesday evening, Marina went into the kitchen to get some water.
Kostya was frying sausages on Dasha’s hair straightener. The smell was nauseating.
“You’re going to ruin that thing,” Marina commented.
Kostya glared at her with dark circles under his eyes.
“This is your fault! You made us live like this!”
Dasha sat at the table, gnawing on dry instant noodles.
“Marina, please,” she whined. “Let me at least use the kettle. I just want some hot tea.”
“The kettle is mine. I bought it for six thousand. You can heat water in a mug with an immersion heater—if you have one.”
“Bitch,” Kostya ground out.
Marina turned to her husband.
“You’re both moving out tomorrow.”
Her words hit like heavy stones.
Kostya stopped frying the sausage.
“Where to?”
“To your mother’s. Anywhere. I don’t care.”
“I’m registered here!” he shouted.
“You’re temporarily registered. Today I filed an application at the town hall to cancel your registration, on the grounds of terminating family relations. Tomorrow, I’m filing for divorce.”
Dasha dropped her noodles. Bits scattered across the table.
“You’re getting a divorce? What about me?”
Marina let out a short laugh, not from amusement, but from disbelief at the stupidity of it all.
“I never adopted you. So pack your things.”
“We’re not going anywhere!” Kostya threw the straightener on the table. “This is my home too! I helped renovate!”
“You put up new wallpaper in the hallway? Feel free to peel it off and take it with you.”
She turned around and went to the bedroom.
Thursday evening.
Marina came home from work earlier than usual. The apartment was quiet.
She walked into the living room.
On the floor were two suitcases and three black trash bags.
Dasha sat on the couch in her winter coat and hat, eyes red from crying.
Kostya was smoking on the balcony.
Marina switched on the light.
“Good job. You managed to pack before I got home.”
Kostya came in from the balcony and blew smoke straight into the room.
“We’re leaving. But you’re giving us the money back. For utilities. And for the renovation.”
“Of course,” Marina nodded. “I’ll transfer it to your account. Right after you send me half the mortgage payments for the three years we were married. That’s one and a half million. Shall we do the math?”
Kostya clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles tensed and bulged.
“Choke on your apartment. You monster.”
He grabbed one of the bags. Dasha stood up. She picked up her backpack.
Marina moved to the living room doors, blocking the exit.
She looked at Dasha. At her brand new puffer jacket. At the genuine leather boots. At the shopper bag from the famous brand.
Marina’s gaze stopped at the sleeve of Dasha’s puffer jacket.
“Take off the jacket.”
Dasha froze.
“What?”
“I said, take off the jacket. And open your backpack.”
Kostya dropped the bag.
“Are you completely crazy? It’s minus two outside!”
Marina was looking only at Dasha.
“This jacket was bought in September. With my bonus. As a ‘get a job’ gift. You didn’t get a job. The gift is void.”
“Marina, please!” Dasha pressed herself against the wall. “I’ll freeze! I don’t have any other winter clothes! My mom threw everything out when we moved.”
“That’s not my problem. Take it off.”
Dasha looked at her brother, searching for protection.
But Kostya stayed silent. He just stared at the floor.
“Kostya, please say something!” Dasha sobbed.
Marina took a step forward.
“Either the jacket stays here, or I’m calling the police right now and reporting a theft. You stole my seven-thousand-ruble cream. I have the receipts. Want to go down to the station to prove whether Galina Petrovna used it on her hands or not?”
Tears streamed down her sister-in-law’s cheeks. With trembling fingers, she unzipped the jacket.
The jacket fell to the floor. Underneath, there was only a thin sweater.
Marina kicked the jacket with her foot toward the sofa.
“Now, the exit’s over there.”
They walked out into the hallway. Kostya carried the bags. Dasha walked in just a sweater, hugging herself for warmth.
Marina stood in the doorway, watching them wait for the elevator.
The elevator doors opened. Kostya stepped in first. Dasha looked back. Her lips were trembling.
“You’re a real monster,” she spat.
Marina silently pressed the button to close the floor doors. The heavy lock clicked shut.
She returned to the kitchen. The apartment was perfectly, ringingly quiet.
No smell of other people’s sweat. No fried onions. No sense of someone else’s presence.
Marina took a key from her pocket. She unlocked the padlock on the big white fridge.
Inside, it was spotless.
She smiled.